Standing Up

She winced and her lips
slashed a dash
a thin, straight line.
Her words held tight.
So I asked -
keeping the line open; hoping
  she'd somehow understand.
She thinks I like fighting
  can't understand why
  I can't keep quiet.
The monster at the door
you know
always smiles.
He thanks her -
compliments her.
And she
wants me to find the peace.
But I'll tell you this -
Every single time I stand up
to him,
I feel better.
I'll keep pointing out
things I need fixed.
I'm sick and tired of
being another statistic
lost in the mix.
My son came home happy -
so I know I'm doing right.
No I don't like fighting
but neither do I like being pushed
into a depressing little corner.
I do it for my son
I do it for myself
I know she gets it.
She's a mother.

Mother, Mother

She's put me in
Her petri dish
Letting me sit for a while
Than re-examines
Noticing my growth
Outside of her
Conventional
Erratic lines
I stopped asking why
The answers leaving on
The by and by
I hear her mumble
Hateful
Unjustified opinions
Pointing out all my wrongs
To anyone who will listen
I hold my tongue
Go about my business
Hug her goodnight
A glimpse of a softer her
Sneaking through
Her harsh words haunt me
Constantly making me
Question love
Oh
Mother, mother
You're breaking me
Tearing me apart
I don't want the bitterness
The sad heart.

Sunrise

The words fell out
Feelings scattering everywhere
Coming back up with
A life of  their own
As if they deserved a home
I looked each word in the eye
Letting that which I did not
Could not
Control
Die

I found the three year old girl
In me
Hugged her tight
Apologized
I
Caught her off guard
The only apology
She
Would ever hear

Now we hold
Each other's hand
No longer separate or
Estranged
We are one
Each
Accepting the other
Walking into
The light of the
Rising sun.

Burning Memories

I repressed
The memory
Just not as deep
As I would've liked
Now it slowly creeps out
A shadow I can
No longer ignore
The thoughts
Leave me cold
I go back to my
Lovely distracting fantasy
Just like I did when I was three

A dark room
He knew
I was scared
He comforted me
A touch
That was
A bit too much
And I wonder
Just as I'm writing this
If he remembers
Just as the memory
Has found me.

Ashes to Ashes

My deepest, darkest
Secret lingers long after
The ashes of pages with
My burning verses swirled
In smoke
I watched
  thinking that would delete it
But God as my witness
The dark words linger
Waiting before all other poems
To be written
They demand it.

Carnivale Doll

The porcelain doll
Sits perfectly
Out of place
Blank stare staring
As if she were waiting
For another travelling show

Maritime compass
Miniature beer stein
Unframed picture
Bent
Curling around the edges
A gaggle of
Collectibles
Sitting down below

She sits in her corner
Free from dust
Taller than the rest
Winning the top shelf
Only because
There was no other place
To put her

Expressionless face
Feet cocked to the side
Flouncy
Puffy
Golden satin pant suit
Instead of a pink
Flowery dress
Made of lace

In her top shelf corner
Eyes
Trained on the door.

Clearing the Air

This post is in no way directed toward my long-time followers nor any new, genuine followers interested in the posts I write here.  This is completely directed toward individuals who make it their life purpose to stalk and make outlandish comments that distract from the flow of the heartfelt blog posts.  I certainly realize that by putting myself out in the virtual world, I open myself up to a number of disturbed individuals who stalk the seemingly weak.  I'm certain BlogSpot has a reporting center where I can report a spam blogger.

The Night We Heard The Wolves Howl

I took his little hand &
led him to the back porch.
Moon shining bright -
frothy, misty sheen of
of clouds floating
whimsically.

Both in awe
Standing in our moment
we heard the call.
Not just one.
We heard them all.

He looked up at me
smiling as bright as the
lunar glow
He reared back his head
letting out a throaty
howl.
I
Letting out my own.

*Technically, they were coyotes but my son & I both agree that coyotes are part of the wolf family.

And Now I Vent

It's the resounding
Boom of the
War drum
Felt deep in
My heart
Strategically planning
Because now
I want to finish his
Undermining
Ways of thoughtless
Destruction
No care for the child
Sitting before him
Just a shell of
A person pretending
To have a soul

I feel a calm
Like never before
My mind does not
Scream
It sits quietly in this
Moment
He started this war
And now I plan to
Finish it.

Acting It All Out

He couldn't tell me
The words too hard
Too hard to say
He acted it all out
An actor in his
Mean
Mean
Play
Banging his toys
Pointing his sweet
Finger
Demanding
To finish it all out
He had to tell me
He had to shout

As the house finally
Grew quiet
He told me why
Sweet little boy
He smiled
He didn't even cry
"Daddy's mean
that's how he is"
He hugged me hard
Snuggled deeper into me
Pretending to be
A baby monkey

Get a Handle On Her

That's what they said
After she cried
The old man running
In shame
His inappropriate touch

I listened to her
Relay the memory
So casually
She rarely talks about
It
Dissociating
All over again
She even laughed

Later she lashed out
I bit my tongue
So many things
Taken the wrong way
When words are
Spoken in haste

Now I understand her
Something I
Tried to do
All my life
Leading up to
This point

Her underlying
Perception
She did something
Wrong
Saying things like
"I should've known
I should've ran home."

Now the darkness
Creeps in
At unexpected times
As her mind relaxes
Losing its train of thought

*This was the hardest to write but the verses demanded to be written.  Raw.  My mother was "nearly...not quite" molested when she was in grade school by a friend of her family.  Her family did the right thing and that person was never allowed near her again.  Authorities and laws and how things such as this were so undeniably grossly mistreated in her time. 1950's.  Something like this "never" happened during that time.  Her father was the mayor of their small town.  Now I understand her.  Now it's so much easier for me to be patient with her.  Her pain in watching me with my struggles may very well be the trigger point in her memory of this event in her life.  Her healing was never allowed to be complete.  Now I understand her. 

Heavy

Sometimes I wonder
Do I say too much
Is it all just too
Heavy?

And then the verses
Demand to be
Written
My mind no longer
Thinking

Important Conversation

     Ok. So my brother had Tot downstairs.  This is visitation day.  Everything gets kind of jumbled, crazy, hectic, and a little frustrating on visitation days. We tend to get caught up in our own frustrations.  My brother had a frustrating moment with Tot.  I won't go into details - the details are rather minor.  It's the conversation that followed that hold the key here. 
     Coming up the steps with Tot, Tot blurted out "I don't want to go.  I don't want to see Daddy." He wasn't immediately forthcoming in his reason so I gave him a moment to think while I also thought of how I should handle this.  I was all ready preparing to discuss some important issues with my ex in regard to his conversations, actions, and overall tone of voice while visiting with Tot.  My mind was full to the brim with the inner mental dialogue.  But Tot's statement took precedence, as it should.
     After a little coaxing, he explained how "Daddy makes me cry."  Again, I won't go into detail.  The crying part was enough for me.  Once upstairs, I said loud enough for my brother to hear "Mommy will take of this.  I need to talk to daddy, anyway.  Don't worry.  No one wants to see you cry."
    
     In my house, telling someone to do something is pointless.  Asking for help may not always get the desired and positive result.  So I took the winding back road, if you will, and waited to see if my brother would jump into action like I wanted him to do.  I wanted him to take Tot back downstairs and reinforce a positive, loving atmosphere while I took a moment to talk to ex about my rising concerns with the visits thus far.  My plan worked.  My brother came back upstairs calm as can be and casually took Tot back downstairs - both laughing and quietly watching an old Henry Fonda black & white movie. 

     Ex came on time and I stepped out on the porch.  The jist of the conversation went a little like this:

"I want to discuss an important matter before I let this visit continue. No more soft punches.  No more good punches.  No more punches of any kind.  No more showing Tot boxing gloves and from now on, you're going to be very careful about what you say to Tot and how you say it.  No more telling him that you don't like me.  I don't care whether or not you like me.  I prefer it if you don't.  Tot cares and he's my only concern here.  Your job is to bond with him and provide a positive atmosphere.  You're going to watch his face and mannerisms and be very in tune to his needs.  You're going to work harder and better on the potty training.  Technically, we have until he's 5.  His little mind is flooded right now.  He is going to daycare, preschool, home, and with you.  He has me, my mom, my brother, and you (all with different mindsets on basic childcare).  We all need to work together or this simply won't work.  Get your act together and step up to the plate.  Tot will not keep coming home telling me he doesn't want to see you.  I don't have to tell you anything else.  Just fix it or I will."

     I walked back in the house, put Tot's coat on and the visit commenced.  The interesting part was that I was able to relay my conversation with both my mom and brother.  I mention this because it is so easy for me to forget that it is easier for them to separate themselves from my situation.  But here's the thing - they're not separated from it.  They're just as much a part in Tot's life as I am. 
     I offered them a tiny window in my everyday thought processes and concerns.  Much of what I discuss here in this blog was laid out on the table before my family in a matter of minutes and that only is a tiny view of the iceberg I'm dealing with, but they understood.  Compassion and respect.  I hail from a very loud German/Irish family and I just might be the quietest one.  I'm an introvert but God help me if I tell them that.  It would turn the conversation into a hailstorm of misunderstanding and questions that I personally don't feel the need to explain.  I did explain to my ex that Tot is also an introvert "Not shy.  He's very intelligent and processes everything he sees and hears.  It may take days for him to bring up an issue.  He's perseverating on all the negative things now and I want to fix this and focus on the positive from now on."
     I don't leave myself out of this conversation.  It's very frustrating for me at times.  It's so easy to revert back to the dysfunctional life my family is used to (they are loving but love has so many meanings for different people).  There was a verbal battle last week that neared World War 3.  In it, I blurted "Love? You guys have a funny way of showing it sometimes." My mother can be rather critical.  Ever since then, my mother has been different in her conversations with me; a more positive approach, on her part.  I don't always recognize that & sometimes I lash out at her.  Now I want that to change.  If I'm asking her to be more positive and considerate - then I, myself, must do the same.
     My brother is of the mindset that all of this is easy for me.  Today's conversation opened his eyes to the struggle.  The court dates.  The planning ahead what my abusive ex might say or do next and always preparing for every situation so that I'm not caught off-guard.  And my main concern of creating a better life for Tot.  Again, I take my own advice.  My conversations with my brother can at times be tense.  How I choose to react to any situation is completely up to me.  If I want to create a positive, better life for my son, I better choose my future reactions wisely.  Tot listens to and processes everything.  It's so easy for me to become overwhelmed and lose control, as it is for all of us.  Much harder to think about the things that come out of my own mouth and how I react to my environment. 
     A year ago, I was not able to focus on any one thing.  Today, my focus is more refined and concentrated.  I'm happy about that.  This may not make any sense to you, or it may make perfect sense.  I'm not a perfect parent but I want to get better.  I will always strive to be better. 

     Tot has had to learn a lot at a fairly young age and he's been forced to learn it quick, just due the nature of these visits.  He's gone to daycare since he was 12 weeks old.  Woke up with me at 4:30 in the morning many times and rolled through the start of the day without complaint (most of the time).  He's struggled with separation anxiety, settled back into a normal routine, and reverted back into separation anxiety all over again.  He stopped stuttering a year ago but it's back in full-force now.  No I won't spend money on a speech therapist.  This is a sign of low self-esteem.  A need of more reassurance that everything will be ok.  It will.  It will take time, but it will all be ok.  One would think that since I'm an introvert I would automatically know how to "fix" his introvert nuances.  So not the case.  I will say at least I'm aware of it. I can try different tactics that my own family never tried with me.  Of course, growing up in the seventies I doubt anyone knew the term "introvert" or how to manage it.  I will not and do not use that as an excuse.  I am aware of it.  That's really all that matters.  It is extremely hard to potty train him.  He's an extremely quick learner and loves learning but he has so many different adults telling him how to do one thing.  The "sit down" method vs the "standing up" method, for example.
     Patience.  It is such an important virtue.  I'm learning to be more patient with myself and with Tot.  Seeing the world through his eyes helps me help him.  It helps me with the goal of becoming a better parent. 
    

Spring Symphony

Gone are the

Dead and dying days

of winter

Cracked

Torn leaves

Withering into the

Newly enriched soil

 

Fresh blades of grass

Fragrant

Young flowers

The birth of new leaves

Wind fluttering

Hopeful sprigs

Of pastels and green

Coupled with the

Melody of the

Bluebird and the robin

Melodic Spring symphony

 

 

Writer's Block Blues

Trying to write a poem
Nothing comes to mind
The verses went to sleep
I'm left here panning
The rhyme
Got my mind on that
1 big poem
Oh yeah
I'll show 'em
Gonna take it
To the top
I'm never gonna
Stop
This sounds silly
A little too
Willy-nilly
I got the writer's block blues
I'll keep writing
Tapping my shoes.

Black & White Exposure

Slate-grey clouds marked the
start of this day, but I had to
find out anyway.  My glorified
image of the place - so long held.
I needed closure from a personal
snapshot exposure.

My landscaper friend caught my eye;
so dutiful in his job to externally
beautify.  My mind reverted
back to his happy smiles.
Always cheerful, waving hi,
amidst his leaf piles.  Cheerfully,
he'd ask about my son.
I proudly showed him photos 2 yrs.
ago.  He puffed out his chest,
"Oh.  He's a handsome one."

The smile in his eyes had faded
when I saw him today.
Corporate compliance; financial
restitution - so much change
in that once happy
institution.  There was a day
not that long ago - where workers
could relax and converse.  Today
his boss frowned at the casual,
happy hello.  We both
said goodbye.  Such a sad, final
resolution.  The window in my camera
snapped close.  Snapshot exposed.

Taking Flight

I am rising

Wings spreading further

Phoenix from her ashes

Passionately, protective mother

Illusion of delicate, broken wings

Dismissed

A quiet, steady

Pounding force

This

My only choice.

Release Me!

I sent my message out to
the Universe; the Great Power
of the all-knowing.  A thin band
of the remaining bonds floating
out in front of me.  The answering
nightmare shocking but only
temporary.  At least I knew
it was only a dream.  Relinquishing
control, I screamed.  Awakening
with the knowledge - it is all
up to me.  Holding onto trust.
Holding onto faith with a
firm grip.
Continuing.

*I never asked God in a conscious, verbal form to "release me."  Yesterday I sat on the couch; Tot being beautifully distracted by the playful environment of daycare.  I consciously and verbally spoke with God to release us.  To take us away from the continuous negative influence of a haphazard soul who calls himself a daddy.  My emotions coiled and blistered.  I gave it over to Him and took a nap. 

The dream started with my ex in my driveway; hood of his car popped open.  He got out with a smile I knew didn't reach his eyes.  I stepped out on the porch. Hesitant and knowing not to go any further but my dream feet slowly proceeded further out onto the porch and then onto to concrete pad of the driveway.  I was strong in my voice as I told him "I can't help you.  You're going to figure this out on your own."  I turned away from him at that point and knew to quickly get back into the house. My feet were leaded.  I wanted to run but my muscles were heavy and I proceeded in slow motion.  Panic overwhelming me.

It was at that moment I realized I was dreaming.  Having a nightmare and that I had to quickly stop it.  It continued on and I was trapped in the forceful grab of him as he came up from behind, laughing.  His intent clear.  He was going to rape me.  I screamed and made every attempt to stop him.  He kept laughing and continued groping.  A mantra started in that space between the dream realm and reality, "This is only a dream.  Calm down.  Count to 10.  Open your eyes."  The nightmare was fading out but it was continuing, all at the same time.  I thought about my friends.  I thought about my family.  I called out the name of my trusted friend and the dream immediately ended.

I pay attention to my dreams - especially the vivid dreams, such as this one.  They hold meaning.  I came away with the feeling that my real-life struggle with my ex would continue but that I hold the key to how that affects me.  I can control my thoughts.  And now I can control some of my dreams / nightmares.  I can let it continue in my waking life by continually worrying about it or I can focus on creating a positive environment for my son and myself.  I choose the latter.  I have a few trusted friends I can call upon for additional help and I am getting better at asking for help.  In short, I came away with an overall positive feeling despite the extremely negative picture the nightmare painted.  God's answer to me meant that I am continuing to heal and that I'm on the right path. 

I don't underestimate anything my ex-husband thinks he may be capable of.  The nightmare is also cautioning me to become more aware of my environment.  So back to changing my driving routine and I will choose a different route to daycare each day from now on.  My ex-husband may or may not want to change for the better.  My focus will remain on maintaining harmony - both internally and externally.

The nightmare coming immediately after my 3 yr. old son relayed the message from his last visit with his dad.  Now I am focusing with microscopic precision on maintaining harmony in my son. His tender, young emotions are exposed now.  It's my job to maintain a semblance of innocence while maintaining honesty and trust.  Protection always the concrete foundation. 

Exposed Nerve

Acute incision
Exposing the
Protected
Sheathed nerve
Alive with electricity
Tender and raw
Thick, yellowish band
Tender to the touch
I attempt to
Gingerly
Restore protection
Neural communication
Relaxing my breathing as I
Close the wound with
Finite precision.

Redefining "Good"

It was the next day
as we were getting
ready to leave. 
Happily playing & chattering,
he caught me off guard;
returning to the conversation
from the previous day.

"Are there good punches?
Daddy said..." His voice
trailing off into questioning
oblivion.
I looked him in the eye -
my voice stern.
"There are no good punches.
The world can do what it wants,
but my son will not punch."

He nodded his head & smiled.
Relief relaxing his innocent face.
"Good."

Soft Punch

His eyes so blue
Clear and sparkling
Full of doubt
Full of question
Momentary hesitation

His face slowly curled and
Contorted into the
Expression
I vaguely remember
Tiny fists curled
His slender, boyish arm
Reaching slowly out
Landing gently on the
Couch
Inches away from me
He stopped
Pleading and questioning
"Daddy said it's okay -
to do it this way.  To
make things go away."

Lovely Souls

     2 lovely souls reached out to my twitter account.  It held its own weight tonight because it's been a while since that has happened.  Or maybe I honestly am becoming more relaxed in my healing.  2 completely different women.  One middle-aged hailing from Ireland.  The other in her early 20's in the U.S.  The abuse survivor from Ireland had in her bio "There are many of us."  That tore right through me.  I tried to link up to her blog.  It's now under strict lock-down.  She mentioned on twitter that that was the "2nd time" she's had to do that and that "It will remain private and blocked."  Or something to that effect.  I immediately understood why.  I can't imagine finally having the freedom to maintain a blog to share deep, honest emotion - only to have to keep it under lock-down out of fear of what her abuser (or whoever) might think or say.  The 2nd survivor couldn't have been more bright and completely fresh.  She caught me off-guard.  You know why?  We're in a similar healing stage.  Her smile is so much more genuine and bright.  And out of the 2, she was so open and honest. 
     It struck home to me tonight.  A night when the moon is so full in its clear sky.  There are so many of "us." Survivors.  I'm so proud of the ones who wear their proverbial badge of honor and step out in the light to sweep away the dark shadows of this subject.  We hail from all over the world with no regard to status or class.  One "princess" from India contacts me irregularly.  Reminding me. Not that I need to be reminded.  She simply "enjoys" my freedom to openly talk about it. Her freedom of expression is limited, to say the least.  But she's on twitter.  Posting her spiritually charged posts.  Always with a well-placed and well thought out underlying message that perhaps some might overlook.  Simple and poignant, all at the same time.  They read my twitter feed.  They read my blog posts.  Not to sound smug in any way.  It's extremely humbling.  Lovely souls.  Surviving and reaching out. 

A Night Like Tonight

It's on nights
Such as this
When a fellow survivor
Reaches out
Her unexpected
Outstretched hand
It's tonight that I
Remember
Just
How far I've come

I purchased my own car
Bought a new cell phone
One that I could finally
Call my own
Put my son in daycare
Stretched my financial means
To get somewhere
Purchased my own laptop
Started a blog
And reached for the top

None of that
Would have happened
Had I stayed
I created my own path
The stones
Carefully laid.

Private Hell

Some
Will never tell
You'll believe her
Painted story
And all its glory
Unable to find her truth
Until she's
Motionless in her
Opalescent coffin.

Extreme Cases

Her face
With her lovely children
The 5 o'clock news
She took her children
Went underground
In hopes of
Never being found

She'll do anything
Change her name
Her appearance
Always searching for
Safe clearance
Her life is not her own
It's now owned
By fear of being caught

But each night she'll
Gently tell her children
A good, goodnight story and
Pray
They'll remember their
New last name.

*There are more of these domestic violence cases then we, or I, can even imagine. 

Survivor Code

Once it happens
It's now
Part of us
We recognize the signs
Silently calling out to
One another
We can hear each other's
Internal screams

The outside world stops
Our prayers
Whispered through the
Long, dark night
In breathy, whispered tones.

You Can't Save Them All

It will astound you
Confound you
Her unwillingness to
Seek a better life
Just keep praying
Your message is relaying
To the only One
Who understands her.

The Girl With The Bloodshot Eyes

She's okay
That's what she'll say
But go ahead and ask her
anyway
That's the only way
She'll know you're real
Keep at her but
Respect her paranoia
She's in the middle of a
Battle
Her own spirit ready to
Topple
Be gentle with your approach
Understand and envision her
Reproach
She's an alien walking through
Her own desolate land
She's practicing her smile
Her eyes are red
She's been crying all night
Keep asking her
"Are you all right?"

Charles Bukowski and Poetry

Ok.  I'm in a writing mood and I want to dump my thoughts out on my lovely blog page.  Whether you read or pass it by quickly to view another blog post, is of no consequence to me.  Seriously.  I write for me.  I'll touch base on that a little further in this post if you stick around.
    
So I was doing a little internet surfing and reading some interesting pages centering around poetry.  A particular web comment page caught my eye "Bukowski..."  Blah, blah, blah.  Just the very mention of Bukowski catches my attention.  So I bopped right in and started reading the comments.  The commenters were young poets.  Early 20's, I'm guessing, judging from their avi pics.  What I read was very interesting and completely unexpected.

So many negative comments on Bukowski's video interview, in which his comment of "Letting the poem flow through you" and how "writing poetry becomes easier" when a poet does that.  Sounds so poetic, I could hardly believe any poet would disagree with him.  But they did.  A good 10 out of the 12 commenting on that post.  One viewer of Bukowski's statement focused only on his looks.  Her comment completely swaying away from the point of the article.  Another commenter made writing poetry sound like a gruesome painful task.  She honestly did not sound like she enjoyed writing poetry and I sat and wondered why she even attempted to write it in the first place; if it was so gruesome, painstaking, and hard for her. 

Bukowski, if you've seen his picture, is eccentric and hard.  Hard, deep wrinkles trailing all over his face.  Cigarette in one hand, pen in the other, and a full cup of coffee sitting on a table full of scraps of paper left over from his writing.  Funny.  I more notice his childlike, boyish grin that suddenly softens those hard wrinkles.  His poetry is his life.  His observations.  His ingenious way of pointing out the human emotion...all of them. 

I love Bukowski and Walt Whitman and many poets like them, for their freestyle verse.  Reading a poet that cuts straight to the bleeding vein without apology is so refreshing.  Now it means I can stop limiting my own poetry and get down to honestly expressing myself.  Bukowski's hard edge poems grab me and keep me and make me think.  I like to think.  Bukowski's unexpected softer side is also beautiful to read and I hope these young poets continue to study him so they will also see this side of him; where he unabashedly laments about the love of his life or the girlfriend that got away. 

It appeared to me that the young poets on this web page were more focused on the tanka rather than the words in that tanka.  More focused on the stanza, rather than the mental picture that comes into the reader's head while reading that stanza.  Big, flowery words don't always have to be used and long, drawn-out poems are not necessary.  Both Bukowski and Hemingway were big believers in "doing away with unnecessary words." 

It all comes down to the poet's own personal style.  I read from several poets, both past and present, to draw a comparison and learn.  I play around with different styles not really focusing on whether my poem can be classified as a tanka, haiku, or free verse.  I tend to lean more toward free verse because it frees me to experiment more.  That's just me, though.  I never write a poem with the thought of whether it will offend or gain more fans.  If I do that, I miss out on the whole purpose of writing poetry in the first place. 

Of course I enjoy encouragement and praise and even tactful criticism.  But when it boils down to it, when I'm writing a poem, all thoughts are deleted except me and that poem.  It does "flow through me".  My best poems are when I'm willing to just relax and honestly feel the feeling of a particular poem I want to write.  And yes, it's extremely easy.  I don't worry about if anyone will even like it.  Guess what.  More people like the poems that I write without thought or care what someone might perceive. 

I find it funny, too that the young poets are more worried about getting published than they are about the sheer simplicity of writing a poem.  There's richness in just allowing a poem to be written - whether it's comical, edgy, drastic, sad, or uplifting.  We get so caught up sometimes of what other people and poets might think of our work - when all we really need to do is just write.

It's All In Your Head

     It isn't just about surviving; it's also about healing.  One must make a conscious effort to heal.  We control every aspect of our own healing - our thoughts during that time can either damage us or strengthen us.  The mind is such a powerful entity.  Thoughts can be controlled and systematic or uncontrolled and erratic.  Paranoia, fear, anxiety,, and anger are all normal phases during the first steps of healing.  The best advice I was ever given during my precarious start of healing was simply, "Keep moving forward."
     So now I'm going to paint you a picture.  Imagine you're in a sess-pool .  Whether you were thrown into it or you accidentally fell in, doesn't matter.  You're in it and you want out as quickly as possible.  The filth and the grime of that sess-pool are overwhelming and just plain nasty.  You're not going to swim in it and languidly perform relaxing backstrokes.  Your whole focus is keeping your head above the filth and grime.  To get out of that sess-pool, though, you do have to swim through it.  If you keep moving forward with your focus on reaching the shore and stepping out to feel clean again, you will move through it quicker.
     Listen, we will always remember a trauma or bad past.  There's really no escaping it completely - except to forget the thoughts that further damage us.  Forgetting parts of the trauma is integral and crucial to healing.  Don't attempt to dredge up that which your mind is so willing to forget - unless you want to jump into the sess-pool of dark thoughts.
     What helps me stay out of my own nasty sess-pool?  I focus on 5 positive thoughts as soon as I wake up and another 5 positive thoughts right before I fall asleep.  I count my blessings before falling asleep; far more effective than simply counting sheep.  It's my daily mind sweep and I practice it throughout my day, as well, to better manage my healing. 
     Universal Law of Attraction and quantum physics delve deeper into the power of the mind.  To me, my mind is like a toddler.  It loves learning.  That learning can either be a bad / negative lesson or good / positive lesson.  I'm teaching and forming it to be better equipped for all of my life's situations.   It will inevitably become fixated on a negative thought - my job is to distract it back to a happy, simpler thought.  The sooner I distract my mind away from the negative, the sooner I start feeling better.  It's just that simple and just that hard.  I have to constantly remain consciously aware of the path my thoughts are headed.  If worrying and anxiety will not help me reach a positive means to any of my goals, then I take the worry and anxiety out.  I write.  I meditate.  I nap.  I say a positive mantra.  I look in the mirror and literally tell myself all the positive things I can think of.  Positive self-talk has been more than helpful; it keeps me moving forward.  Swimming in my sess-pool was no fun and I do not want to willingly or accidentally stumble in it again. 

Happy Girl

It was
  not that long ago
A mere
  6 months
    or so
Where I became so used
  to the gritty feel of
    crawling on concrete
I put my whole body into it
  never really feeling
    I would be complete
I spun out of control
  torn outside of myself
I was evaporating
  faster than words unread
    on a dusty shelf
So I stopped.

No more worrying about
  moving with or against
    outside forces
I crawled deep inside
  took a good, long look
    at all my choices
And that's where I found her
The happy girl
  I very nearly forgot about
Resting comfortably
  no need to shout
Plucking her daisy
Counting her blessings
  one, two, three
I crawled inside her
And found me.

A Second Glance

Happiness
My well-played
Fantasy
Dancing on the
Sideline
Never feeling
The fine time
Not even a
State of mind

But all that
Began to change
Somewhere
A tolling bell rang

Now this is
My chance
Fists raising
Glory praising
I make my stance

A fantasy
Certainly can
Birth
A reality

Construction Almost Complete

I've been a
Soul under construction
Broken down
Torn apart
Ripped from my
Very core

It took a while
Longer than I
Thought it would
I thought I'd never
See the completion
A soul
Well on her way to
Deletion

The thin scaffolding
Surrounding my
Fragile spirit
Withstood
The wind
The rain
The pain

I stand here now
Feeling almost whole again.

Prove It!

I hate those words
Passive aggressive insult
Such they are
People are
Who they are
We prove it everyday
It's in our voice
Our mannerisms
Our most desired choice

Our actions
Speak louder than our word
I'm certain you've heard.

Vertigo

Crystalized imbalance
While standing in one place
The feeling of falling
Heavy limbs
Toes clawing the floor
Steadiness
Just out of reach
Spinning.

*I was going to put this in my 2nd blog but I find it more appropriate placed here.  It could certainly be perceived as that feeling of 1st love, which was my original intent when writing the 1st line.  But poetry and thoughts mingle, and my mind wandered to my 1st unsteady healing stages.  That moment when the tornado is just passing.  Or that feeling of coming off a tumultuous roller coaster.  Such are the tornadic and roller coaster of emotions during the beginning stages of healing.  And I would further go on to add, it can fairly feel that way after some time has passed and you begin to actually learn just "who" you are.  Vertigo.

Soul Rhythm

I am learning
The art of me
Dancing inside
Slow
Graceful stride
Uptake of
Emotion
Feeling the notion
Savoring the
Quality

Flowing in
Flowing out
Inner rhythm
Satin ribbon
Tangling
Untangling
Again

Letting chance
Make her stance
Learning her rhythm
I begin to dance

While I Was Sleeping

Out of the
Countless
Friends & acquaintances
6 decided to stand out
Making it a point to
Quietly highlight
The beautiful designs
Of life
That awaited me
Ignoring my protests
As I stubbornly slept
Their prayers
Reaching me
In the most
Fantastic dreams

When I woke up
My garden was intact
6 beautiful souls
Continued to
Plant hope
Never once giving up
On me.

Seat of My Soul

Staunch pretense
Valiant utterance
Healing
Just a word
That never reached
My soul

I lost myself
Parts I will never
Be able to regain
I was grieving
But refused to
Attend that funeral

The groundwork was laid
Benefits I
Underpaid
More determined to 
Speed the process
Ignoring the signs of
Regress
Falling deeper and deeper
Into my own
Numb abyss

I nearly lost
Everything
Forced to sit in the
Center of it all
Hearing my own
Punishing
Damning
Inner voice
Echoing

That was the moment
I started to feel sorry
For myself
The exact same moment
I began to
Forgive myself
And true healing
Could begin.

Isolation Nation

I crawled in
Deeper in the dark
Where I thought
No one could see me
Where no one
Would hear me
Hell was following me
I had to close the door
Wanting only to sleep
Forever more

Friends called me out
Into their blinding sunlight
I slunk further and further
Into my shadow
Shock to my system
The light was simply too bright

My mind was screaming
Not wanting them to see
Me
That way
Only a few brave friends knew
Silently agreeing to stay

So
Little by little
They showed me
Smaller pieces of
Their outstanding light
My eyes slowly adjusting
Growing more accustom
To their powerful positive might

One small step
And then another
They patiently waited
Knowing not to smother
Refusing to be completely
Out of my line of sight
They decided to hover
As I
Crawled back out of
Isolation

Soul Connections

I sought out isolation
  they so easily
    complied
Distanced themselves
While I put my heart
  on a dusty shelf
Knowing me
  better than I
    know myself

The cracks in my heart
Slowly sealed
I remembered
Their yield

A constant
Elaborate
Communication
Of the soul
Vibration

Mass Media Injustice

I was thinking the other day, "Kendra, you've come so far.  Give this topic a rest. Maybe some people are just sick and tired of hearing it. Everyone suffers.  Go about your business and just be." And I went about my day.  People have their misperceptions about the healing process and misperceptions of domestic abuse and...blah, blah, blah.  I'm in a good place right now, so why not just let the whole subject rest for a while?  Anywho.  It was late in the afternoon 2 days ago.  I sat down with Tot and we watched some YouTube videos.  The boy is plum addicted to King Kong.  He also shows some love for Batman and Superman and Spiderman.  We hunkered down and watched a newer digital cartoon version of Batman. 

It was predictable, as I expected it to be.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  Then a scene of the Joker and a modernized version of Cat Woman appeared.  She was nothing like the original version of Cat Woman.  She had a high-pitched, childish voice which annoyed me.  I kept watching just to see where the creators of this cartoon were taking this character.  I wasn't even interested in the storyline.  I was busy making mental comparisons.  In this particular scene, she follows Joker around, vying for his attention.  He responds in an abrupt voice to leave him alone so he can focus on getting Batman.  She grabs his hand, kneels in front of him, and he back-hands her and calls her a "Stupid girl".  It was like watching a train wreck.  I was shocked.  Tot was upset.  I clicked out of that cartoon and diverted Tot's attention to a more appropriate YouTube video but I could not get that scene out of my head.  Thank God Tot's attention was not completely captured by that scene.  He never re-enacted it.  I say that because he acts out scenes from the 2010 King Kong movie, which he's seen too many times to keep count.  This little clip from the modern version of Batman did not hold any merit in his mind.  It did and still does in my mind, however.

That YouTube video would have lasted for another 30 minutes if I would've let it and who knows what other scenes we would have stumbled upon.  I find it odd that the short clips leading up to the scene I'm referring to; the scenes where Batman and Joker face off briefly, are all depicted with respect for each other.  Two male rivals but not going so far as to show any outward violence against each other when they briefly meet on accident.  The scene with the female and Joker?  Complete disrespect for women is blatantly depicted.  The girl is submissive.  Joker is dominant.  She kneels in front of him begging for his attention.  He backhands her in the face and she stumbles away apologizing in her high-pitch, childish voice. 

There was no rating for this particular cartoon.  No parental warning of violence.  The heading was fun in a cartoonish sort of way.  This is what is mass-produced for our children to see - boys and girls.  I loved watching Batman and Spiderman when I was growing up.  I'm sure there are a lot of little girls now that do the same thing - play with dolls and watch superhero cartoons. This scene and many others like it, I'm sure, are out there now.  Spread across the world in all different languages for everyone to see.  The original Cat Woman had a growling, purring voice.  She was dominant in her own independent way.  She was a villain but I loved her when I was growing up.  There was nothing submissive about her.  The fight scenes were just enough to let you know there was a fight scene but nothing extreme.  In fact, it was a parody.  Comical.  A true cartoon later made into the T.V. series many people still enjoy to this day.   This modern version takes it all to the next level and makes it more "real."  Real in the eyes of the producer, director, artists, and writers.

Is this the "real" version of females we want to depict?  The creators of this cartoon I'm passionately discussing sure think so.  Over a thousand 'hits' on YouTube the day Tot and I watched what we watched.  The obscene fascination of submissive vs dominant roll-play is running rampant on the internet and in our world.  Don't get me wrong, all relationships have a submissive / dominant quality to them that each partner blends into and trades off rather eloquently.  That's my belief.  It isn't about power or control.  It's simply how the human mind works and we simply do this naturally.  The mass media runs wild with this idea, however.  Now dominance is about control, power, abuse, and violence.  Now submission is about low self esteem and pandering to a partner and accepting the abuse.  This is the perception that mass media has incorporated willingly. 

The makers of this cartoon did not stop to think how this might portray women and how such a negative light is now cast on women in their final cut of the cartoon.  The writers did not stop and demand editing.  The graphic artist and screen designers did not raise a hand and demand any different.  And if they did, it didn't matter.  The scene would be produced.  The final result is millions of children and some die-hard adult fans watching.  And it's portrayed as "ok" because it's produced in a cartoon, fun sort of way.  The violence and dehumanizing of women is a mass production now and it's disgusting.  What's even more disgusting is that it gains the producers of said cartoons and movies money and new viewers.  A new generation taught to disrespect.  A new generation of women led to believe that it's "ok" to have a low self-esteem because at least they'll have a relationship, if nothing else.  A new generation taught to disrespect the very meaning of love and stamp it down to the point it holds no merit or meaning.

So in light of "letting this subject go," I say no.  I will not just "let it go."  I'm more fired up about it now than I ever was.  It's a problem.  A huge problem.  I don't care if anyone gets tired of hearing about it.  You know what?  The people that don't want to hear and learn about domestic violence are the problem, in the first place.  I'm going to keep discussing it.  It's a damn ugly subject that needs to be discussed.  Until the misperceptions fall away; until the acceptance and blind-eye mentality falls away - it's a subject that simply won't go away.  Our very own mass media is making sure it remains a powerful subject.  Even glorifying it.  If no one else is going to call "bullshit" on this crappy card game in our society, than I will. 

**Note to fellow survivors:  You get your happy ass out there and speak up against this ugly subject.  Got me? It won't go away by staying silent.  It's very healing to open this subject up and let people know what we struggle with emotionally on a daily basis.  Speaking up and being honest about this beautiful process is the only way the misperceptions and glorifications will end. 

**Note to mass media:  Virtual reality and technology are great things but word-of-mouth is still very powerful.  If you're going to be stupid, I'm going to call you on it.  There's a difference between stupidity and ignorance. Dehumanizing women is stupid.  You want your gitchy, little cartoons and movies and sitcoms to gain more viewers? Straighten your stupid asses up and treat women with respect.  Period.  There is simply no excuse for stupidity.  Not in this day and age.  What would your mother say?  Or your daughter?  Or niece? You spent money on a high-quality education. Start acting like it.  Be intelligent.

The Art of Healing

There is no magic formula, but you need to
respect it.  Give it time to work its power.
Take all the time you need and realize
it may take a lifetime.  Go with the flow.
Don't hide your emotions.  Let them go
freely.  Release what you need to release.
Cry if you need to cry.  Scream if you need
to scream.  Don't worry about what others may
think.  I'm telling you, more people are with you
than against you.  Healing is a process.  A harmony
found within.  Sit in the center of your mind and
find yourself.  Explore or just sit comfortably for
a while.  Listen to your own heartbeat;  the sound
of your own blood pumping through your veins.
So many times, we try to rush the healing process.
Blast that thought away.  There is beauty and
strength in healing. 

Lovely Son

Bouncing!
Bounding!
The scream of my son
Is sounding!
He's rounding the corner
Stand back
Pounding steps
Your only forewarner
There's a monster to chase
Chocolate milk on his face
He's smiling
As big as the sun
My lovely
Lovely
Son

Mommy Can Do It

He raises his hand
Makes a proud stand
"Mommy can do it"

Broken toy
Someone needs to
Fix it
Don't worry
"Mommy can do it"

Spider on the wall
Legs sprawled
Someone needs to
Kill it
Don't worry
"Mommy can do it"

Chase the shadows
Make them run away
Dream of our
Better day
There's really nothing to it
"Mommy can do it"

3am Conversation

He popped right up
Hair messed
Soft tuft
Remembering our
Previous conversation
He started in
With such elation
What grand things
This summer
Held in store
I kissed his soft cheek
And told him more
A conversation
I hold dear
And adore.

Carry On

Carry on
As if
Nothing else matters
But you and
Your saving grace
Be kind to yourself
Dust yourself off
Get off that
Dusty shelf
Walk like
You know
Where you're going
Even if
You haven't a clue.

Beyond the Horizon

Don't pick it apart
The picture you see
You're only seeing
The smallest of parts

Stand real close to
Any painting
You notice the
Brush strokes and
The dark shadings hiding
In domestic shadows

Stand further back
The picture comes
Alive
The light and
The darkest hues
Blend to form
The beauty
Of the sun
Rising

Dark marrying light
The pastels and
Bright colors
Blending in with
Dark earthy shades
That form the
Edge of the horizon

My Thoughts,,,Survivor 101

Ok. Put yourself in the position of the domestic abuse survivor.  Imagine you are her.  You untied yourself from the proverbial whipping post of your abusive husband, left him, filed for divorce, and now you're taking a deep breath as you enter the court system for the final process to be written, processed, sealed, dated, and completely official.  You are looking for protection, so you go file an order of protection.  Got me, so far?  You walk into court, more than likely, for the first time, with a drummed up notion of security.  Because this massive building made of marble and brass fixtures just screams justice and protection and security.  You're scared but you have a sense of relief.  Your story that you're about to tell is completely personal and very private, so you go alone.  You're getting ready to spill your guts to all the right people for all the right reasons and the last thing you want is someone close to you to change your train of thought in this.  It's a delicate issue.  An official stranger with an official manila envelope bearing your name and your court record number will hear and record all your information and for some odd reason, this is comforting.  Your nerves are on edge and you feel like running away but you go ahead and do this because your very life depends on it.  And if you have a child, it's even more imperative to get this story out and get all the help your state officials have promised you even before you were born. 

You tell your story only briefly to the person that will direct you to the correct office.  That office will whisk you away to a back room behind a heavy door where you'll sit down at a very official conference table.  It all feels strange in a very good way.  You're taken seriously as you cry and tell your story.  Notes are taken.  Nods are given.  They'll push you for more because they know you're holding back and scared.  You'll strip your soul down to its very core in that room; crying tears you never cried before and your story will spill out of you like blood.  It'll be a release that you never expected.  It'll fire you up and you'll feel like you're further away from that whipping post.  A court appointed lawyer / official will handle your case.  They won't necessarily walk you through the entire process but they will definitely push you to continue.  And you will.  Continue.  You'll go home feeling justified and very self-assured.  Feeling on top of the world, for once.  You'll wait for the next court date.

That's when you realize.  Maybe not the first couple of court dates, because you're still on some kind of inner high.  But you'll begin to realize soon enough, you're a number.  A court number of a court case stacked amongst many other court cases similar to your own.  Some are far more dire, others are not that extreme, and some are just left hanging in oblivion because of some change in mind or final decision.  The court appointed official will not necessarily disappear but your contact with them will become less and less until you never see them.  You're on your own.  To handle your own case and you have no idea how to any of this legal mumbo-jumbo, but by damn, you do it.  It's at that very moment, mere weeks into this, that you realize you've been tied to a different kind of whipping post.  Now it's official.  Now a judge will blatantly tell you how things will go.  You wait to speak.  You keep your tone of voice even, even though you feel like screaming.  The judge will tell you outright the number of domestic violence cases your state is handling.  You'll look at your wrists expecting to see rope tied around them and wonder if the judge even cares about you.  Not on a personal level, of course, you're not stupid.  But you'll definitely feel your number come into play. 

The judge will read to you all that you spilled out on that first day you walked into court.  Sitting at the table mere feet away from you is your abuser with a smirk.  You won't need to look at him to know it's there.  Now the real fear comes into play.  It won't matter whether or not you have an official order of protection.  You'll be expected to walk in and out of that court without personal protection.  You won't be segregated like you imagined in your mind.  Like you feel you should be.  No.  He'll be right there.  Pride will fly out of the window.  You'll try with all your might to not sound nervous as you answer all the judge's questions and confirm everything that manila folder contains.  In fact, you'll strike up the nerve to add more verbal content just to make sure the judge knows the importance of all this.  The whipping post bonds will tighten as the judge sends you away with no real sense of protection. 

You're not going to waste your time or your money on a lawyer.  You now realize this will go on a lot longer than you ever imagined.  You started to do tiny research on narcissistic sociopathic abusers and know they like to drag it all out for as long as they can.  It's punishment and they mean to exact it.  The court sees him, read his file just the same as yours, but he's a human in the court's eyes.  They don't know him like you do.  They never will.  You take notes and remind the court every court visit just what you had living with.  You're not going to get frustrated.  The court and the judge half-ass expects that.  A sniveling, driveling victim.  So you straighten up your attitude.  You quickly learn a new way to walk, talk, look, and speak.  You are becoming your new you.  The court is forcing you to do this.  To do anything else, and you will spell out your failure in no time. 

That all said.  You take mental notes of the other domestic abuse survivors that walk into court.  Some treat it like old hat and just wear a dirty T-shirt, sweat pants, and flip flops with dirty socks.  They literally woke up tired, went to court tired, and go home tired.  They look beaten, don't they?  You're not going to do that.  You're not going to spend money on an entirely different wardrobe but you will wear clean, nice looking jeans.  No T-shirt.  A blouse.  You will wear make-up and your hair will be clean and combed and trimmed.  Fresh.  New.  You.  The court has no idea who the hell you are and they're expecting you to change your mind and look at your abuser and change your naïve little mind and go back to him.  And you know what?  Those are the cases  that sit in oblivion.  The cases that gave up because it got too hard and went on for far too long and there's damn bills to pay....etc, etc, etc.  Get that stupid shit out of your head.  You're not going to back to your monster, so just shut-up, unless you want to plan your own funeral. 

Hunker down, sweet pea.  You're in for the long hall.  If you think the judge will give you a hug after each hearing (if you're fighting the visitation progression like me), then you're sadly mistaken.  Chances are your abuser will get more time to speak his mind than you ever thought possible.  He'll gladly jump through all the hoops you originally designed out of sheer fear and for protection purposes - but only half ass.  The judge doesn't keep good notes, so you will constantly refer to what was said in the last hearing.  The frustration won't show and you better not let it.  You'll get quickly reprimanded if you do.  You'll feel like an errant child when ask for further stipulations.  Your intuition and your gut instincts will constantly tell you "Wait a minute! Tell the judge this.." or tell the judge that.  Go ahead and tell him.  He or she needs to know.  You need to humanize yourself in the judge's eyes, anyway.  Get them away from treating you like a number but do it with suttle grace. 

Here's where it all gets interesting.  You're a woman.  Women are supposed to act a certain way.  What I'm saying, is this.  The court system is antiquated and holds a second class thought process in their treatment of women, especially women of domestic abuse cases.  Don't file yourself away into that mentality but definitely learn to play the card game.  Smile often.  Low voice.  Soft dress.  You get my drift.  Throw a wild card out and remind the judge of the harassing phone calls and text messages.  In my case, I have to constantly remind the judge that my ex is a crack cocaine user.  "Is" - not "was." I have to constantly remind the judge that my ex is abusive.  Sounds strange but it's true.  That's what you will do.  Remind them why you're even there.  At the end of each and every hearing, you will look the judge in the eye and say "Thank you for listening." That's what women with good manners do, anyway, so get in that habit from day one. 

This post is for people interested in the cause of ending violence but never personally experienced it.  It's for the survivors out there second guessing themselves.  It's for anyone who gives a damn.  You better give a damn.  There's a ripple effect to domestic abuse.  A woman who is going through this system (& the men who experience it, too) is called away from their job to go to hearings.  Time and money is poured into the court system for social workers, lawyers, judges, and other state officials.  Abusers are still given the sense that it's all ok.  When they grow tired (and they will, trust me), they will simply look for their next victim and the process starts all over again.  I'm not even going to mention the final outcome of murder cases that come as a result of lack of protection.  There's more than I care to mention here. 

I'm disgusted today, especially.  My judge "forgot" about my case and was at his dentist's office.  A female judge handled the hearing today.  In one way, it was a blessing.  I was able to tell my ex and this new very temporary judge what was on my mind..."I think he's simply dragging this all out as a form of harassment."  I said more than that.  And it felt damn good.  My ex whined about not seeing his son often enough.  The visits got ramped up (every Saturday 10 - 6pm with the addition of every other Sunday 9 - 6 pm).  No overnight stays, yet.  I was completely shocked when this temporary judge today told me that my original judge "denied" any future drug testing.  My abusive, sociopathic, ex husband refuses drug rehab.  He randomly attends anger management meetings and their not with a social worker like I originally demanded.  He can sit and talk with just about anyone he wants about his anger management as long as they sign some flimsy paper he hands them.  That's all the proof that is needed.  He had the opportunity to start this new schedule immediately...this weekend.  He adamantly refused.  It's about control.  It's not about bonding with his son.  As far as I can see. 

He comes late on some Saturdays and drops our son off early.  Sometimes he will even give some reason known only to him and not see our son at all on any given weekend.  The choice is his and he's choosing not to bond. 

It's all as I expected.  I have done my research and I trust my instincts which is why I'm calm at this very moment.  My ex will get very tired of all this.  He treats it like a hassle in so many ways, all ready.  I stalled the court to an unbelievable amount.  My son was 2 days old when I left my husband and Tot is now almost 4.  He's a chatter box and tells me everything.  I don't have to force him to talk about anything.  I all ready have a strong bond.  A routine that he's used to.  He trusts me.  So I'm sitting here as a mother tonight.  A surviving mother.  Not a domestic abuse victim.  I see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I've come further in this than I ever expected but there are still shadowy parts I can't think about.  Like, what the hell will it be like when my son is forced to spend the night with my abusive, drug addict ex husband?  I can only pray.  Tonight, I'm feeling a sense of God's Hand working in ways that I don't quite understand.  It puts the word Faith into an action form for me.  I am actively involving Faith.  I have to.  It's key to my survival. 

Coyote Moon

The air is restless under the
   faint glow of the moon
On this cool March night
Tingling skin
Hair standing on end
Off in the distance
A quick bark
The abrupt howl
Tension is mounting
With coyotes
On the prowl.

Resonating Calm

I've been here before
But this time is different
Perhaps it's this
Cool
Crisp
March night
Everything falling
Comfortably in place
Despite the
Obscured outer view

I'm settling in
Swimming in
An ocean of calm

Friday Fight

They want the fight
The skill of the
Might
Between
Wrong vs
Right
8 rounds
It's a tiring fight
1 last punch
See him
Flop
In the ropes
It's a
Friday fight
With gamblers
Holding onto their
Fistful of green
Real tight
Waving them
Voraciously in the air
They never expected this
A girl standing victorious
With flowers
In her hair.

Soul Destination

Swirling thoughts
Danger and
Cost
I quiet my mind
Put my ear to the earth
Dancing
Outside myself
I move back in
To hear my own
Heartbeat
Find
My own worth

Beautiful People - Beautiful Moments

And then
My dearest friend
There are moments
Which truly do
Take me
Away from it all
A simple text
Asking if I'm ok
A small light
I see at the
End of my dark tunnel
To light my way
Completely absurd
Conversations
Laughing
Making me forget
And that's what I adore most
Those
Whether they know it
Or not
Reaching out a hand
Without wagering
The compliment.

Nauseating Pause

It's the
Nauseating pause
As the just
Look for
Just cause
The court room
Burned in my mind
Cold marble
So unkind
In the echoing hall
I search for silence
Gathering within
Gathering it all
Dream of a warm beach
Anything to take my mind
To a better place
Mastering my facial expressions
For my abuser
I must constantly face
Hiding my emotions
Behind
The imperfect storm
Hearing the judge speak
Of the upgrade he might grant
His voice full of
Forewarn
It's then I want to run
Before I become
Completely undone.

Internal Dialogue

I prepare now
For the next
Court date
The official
Desegregate
I grow tired
Of the haphazard
Mire
Loading guns
Preparing to fire
I separate myself
As best I can
But I need that
Upper hand
This is a grueling fight
Not of might
It's a power of wills
Waiting for me to
Stumble
Grow more tired
Hopeless kills

When?

It can't last forever
No storm ever does
But this has gone
& on
& I'm asking
When?
When will it
  be over
Or will it just continue
Leaving me
Forever restless?